


Five Stages of Loving the Commander

by Kyne_7



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Romance, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyne_7/pseuds/Kyne_7
Summary: Evelyn "Evie" Trevelyan experiences five stages when it comes to her feelings for a certain blonde-haired honey-eyed commander. She's a mage, he's a templar; at their core, they could never have feelings for each other. And even if they did it would never work out. And even if it could, she was sure to screw it up, it was in her nature. And even if she did, the bastard probably wouldn't even blame her for it. And...As the leader of the Inquisition, it's her duty to come to terms with how she feels before it interferes with the mission...as if it hasn't already.





	1. Denial Part One

**Author's Note:**

> First Dragon Age fic, will eventually have some more mature (i.e. "romantically mature") parts in it! I've been pretty terrible at updating my previous fics due to my work schedule but hopefully this will spur me back into updating more. Enjoy!

Evie Trevelyan does _ not _ choose the templars over the mages because of Commander Cullen Rutherford. In fact, she throws a book at Varric when he suggests it. Sure, the commander is a former templar, and she supposes Varric is right that he’s easy on the eyes—especially when he gives her that smile, that brilliant white smile when she decides on allying with the templars. None of that influenced her decision _ at all_. 

She chooses the templars because even with their mutiny from the Chantry, even with that little stunt in Val Royeaux, they’re more organized than the rebel mages. Fiona handing over Redcliffe to the Tevinters is a punch to the stomach, and Evie doesn’t sound convincing even to herself when she first tries to plead their case at the war table. When Josephine gently agrees with Cullen that the templars are a better choice, reassuring Evie that she can manipulate Orlesian noble houses to sway Lord Seeker Lucius, Evie knows she’s right. She appreciates the ambassador’s sensitivity to it all the same.

Her family name gets thrown around a lot over the next few days while Josephine works. Suddenly, she is receiving letters from all sorts of distant relatives and family friends, people who had disowned her when she was just a child. Suddenly, everyone has fond memories of the little nine-year-old who could do magic tricks. The little nine-year-old they sent to the Ostwick Circle and forgot about until she becomes the Herald of Andraste.

She does not receive a letter from Bann Trevelyan, and for that she is eternally grateful.

The day before they are to leave for Therinfal Redoubt, Solas catches her pacing the length of the stables, occasionally reaching out her hand to pass over the armored nose of her mount.

“Do you think I’m making a mistake?” she asks the white-maned horse, and she jumps four feet out of her skin when Solas chooses to answer her instead.

“Do you feel you owe the mages something?” he asks.

“That’s just it, isn’t it? I’m a mage. I’m choosing to meet with, _ side with_, our greatest oppressor.” She chews harshly on her bottom lip.

“I seem to remember you telling our commander that you didn’t hold any resentment towards templars.” Solas regards her without judgement. 

“I don’t, I’m not that petty,” she says, but in the back of her mind she remembers when the templars attacked Ostwick Circle. She remembers what it feels like to flee, to fear the armored Chantry soldiers and their lyrium-enhanced abilities.

“You’re making the most logical choice for the Inquisition. You’d be a poor leader choosing based on personal bias.”

Solas is right of course, as he often is. She knows that, she does, but...

“It’s my fault, you know,” she whispers next, but if Solas can hear her, he doesn’t pry.

But it is her fault, the fall of Ostwick Circle. That’s why she went to the Conclave. Out of a desire for retribution. And after the Fade spit her back out in the rubble of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, all she had left was guilt, and the guilt is why she can’t bring herself to choose the mages. The guilt is why she chooses the templars; _ not _Commander Cullen Rutherford.

* * *

She arrives at Therinfal Redoubt and is reminded of how much she _ hates _ Orlesian high society. The houses that have gathered in support of the Inquisition, to demand the templars do something about the Breach, are shallow in their demands. They feel no danger. They are here only because of the social implications if they were _ not _here.

Evie insists on bringing Solas, despite knowing he’d hate being there as much as she would, only because she wanted the Orlesians to see her accompanied by another mage. Another apostate. She wanted to bring Iron Bull as well, but Josephine paled and not-so-subtly suggested someone more human. Evie settles on Vivienne. 

She enjoys how she feels, standing between the thrumming magic of her companions, and Vivienne is familiar with Orlesian nobility. Neither of them are thrilled with her decision. Neither of them want to be there. _ She _ barely wants to be there, stepping into a fortress teeming with templars. Every nerve in her body is alive, her fight-or-flight response active and kicking and rearing to _ fight. _ The magic burns at the tips of her fingers, and Solas steps closer, brushing her arm with his, and she exhales a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

Some of the nobles are whispering about her. She can hear them. One woman approaches them just before the inner gate, curtseying, and introducing herself—apparently, one of her cousins, honored to meet her of course.

Evie fights back the snarl that tugs at her lip. The woman prattles on; oh how she _ missed _Evie at Aunt Lucille’s last ball. An easy name drop, one Evie could almost not fault her for. Her aunt was quite famous after all. It is entirely possible for there to be a distant cousin she doesn’t know. The test for a true Trevelyan is easy, however.

“Modest in temper,” she says, and then she waits. To anyone else, it is gibberish, or perhaps a phrase meant to sound profound, or some kind of passcode. To a Trevelyan, it is part one of the family creed. Even the servants know House Trevelyan’s motto. In fact, she dare guess that half of the nobles of the Free Marches would see the phrase at some point, emblazoned on their flags and murmured to their friends. The correct and easy response is, “bold in deed.”

The female noble’s smile falters. “Y-yes, quite.”

Ah, a failure. Evie’s temperament breaks and she scowls before brushing past the sputtering noble. She doesn’t have time for this. She’s already surrounded by templars, and add to that these stupid scheming nobles—

“I recognize her,” Vivienne mutters to Evie. “She’s actually a cousin of the Amells, in Kirkwall. A third cousin. Quite desperate for the inner echelons, isn’t she?”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

“We wouldn’t be here _ at all _ if you’d told your lovely commander his old templar friends could take a long walk off a short pier,” Vivienne replies. “I still can’t believe he talked you into this... _ meeting_.”

Evie bristles. “Commander Rutherford didn’t talk me into this. It’s the best decision for the Inquisition.” _ It has nothing to do with Cullen. _

* * *

She knows it isn’t real when the Envy demon slits Cullen’s throat, and she definitely does not bite back a scream when his body crumples to the dirt. The thing that isn’t Lord Seeker Lucius, the thing that _ isn’t her_, steps away from him and laughs. Then it’s screaming at her about how it wants to be her, showing her all her greatest fears—Vivienne, calling her a traitor to her own kind as the Shadow Inquisitor sentenced her to death for treason; Cassandra telling her that her Templar force marched unmatched, laying waste to Orlais. Yet even despite all that, despite knowing that none of this is _ real_, the image that sticks the most is Cullen’s lifeless body.

That—the memory of Cullen’s dead eyes—is definitely _ not _ why she can’t bring herself to follow that dark inner voice in her head and conscript the templars. She makes them allies of the Inquisition but doesn’t disband them, despite Solas and Vivienne’s _ adamant _ disapproval, and it most certainly has _ nothing _to do with the memory of her commander’s blood painting the grass beneath him.

“I’m _ fine _,” she brushes off Solas’s arm when they arrive back at Haven. “Just—just give me five minutes before I have to go back to the war table and give a report on what just happened.” She ups her pace.

“You’re going to see the commander, aren’t you?” Solas is frowning. “Something happened, with the Envy demon. Those creatures are tricky, if you don’t talk about what you saw—”

“I’m not!” She half-yells it at him, and for a moment he is so surprised he stops. She has never yelled at him before. She takes a deep breath. “I’m not going to...to see anyone in particular. I just need…”

“Five minutes,” Solas repeats solemnly.

But she has already started walking again, and then she’s through the gate of Haven and she can see him, that huge fur cloak and shining breastplate. He’s speaking with one of his men, and Evie’s chest is heaving with each inhale like she’s just run a marathon.

_ You see, everything is fine. He’s fine. _

“Ah, Miss Trevelyan, you’re back.” He smiles at her.

She nods at him, unable to respond back with much, and then she’s moving past him. Her composure, solid and true, returns. “War table, five minutes.”

“Of course.”

She doesn’t look at him as she passes, she moves with purpose straight up the stairs, into the trees. She needs to set something on fire without scaring the troops. She has five minutes.

_ I don’t know what I was so worried about. Everyone is fine. _


	2. Denial Part Two

He doesn’t call her by her title anymore, and she’s thankful for that, though it takes him a while. Being called “Lady Trevelyan” and “Lady Herald” makes her incredibly uncomfortable. The only one who hasn’t broken out of that habit yet is Cassandra—baby steps, Evie supposes.

She, very poignantly, feels the distance when Cullen calls her “Miss Trevelyan.” She’s sure he’s putting it there on purpose. It’s fine. There _ should _ be some distance between a commander and...whatever she is. She doesn’t mind at all.

Evie spends several evenings a week in the Singing Maiden, though she’s starting to think she needs a new place with the sudden influx of templars. She has a table in the corner that she likes, where Flissa brings her a drink and a candle, and she reads. Flissa does her best to keep people from bothering her, let the mage have a few private moments, but it’s been harder with all the new soldiers.

“Herald!”

Evie flinches. She looks up from her book, one of Varric’s novels, and sees Flissa giving her a wince from the bar.

“Hello, Fletcher.” Evie tries to smile as the knight-templar plops himself into the chair opposite hers. The Knight-Captain behind him gets a warmer, more genuine smile. “Delrin.”

Delrin Barris had her back during the Envy demon attack in a way she has never experienced from a templar. He treats her with respect—not just because of her title, but because he has seen her in battle and she has earned his trust there. It’s the kind of respect she is alright receiving. Barris grins at her, standing behind Fletcher with his arms relaxed on his hips.

“Evie,” he nods, and then he notices her book. “I hope we’re not interrupting you. Fletcher was gushing about your performance against the Envy demon, wouldn’t shut up about it to the men.”

“Is that right?” She chuckles and puts the book away. “Did you tell him that _ you _did most of the work?”

“Bastard won’t believe me.” Barris throws a wink and takes the seat beside her. Fletcher scrambles into the opposite chair.

It’s nice to talk a bit with someone who doesn’t see her as something to be idolized. Varric joins them not long after, poking a healthy bit of fun at her when he notices his novel sticking out of her bag. He orders them all another round, and Fletcher must be a lightweight; they’re halfway through their drinks and he keeps nodding off. Barris laughs.

“Until next time, Evie, I should get this one back to barracks.” He slings the other man’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on, man, at least _ try _to stand up.”

“Want me to just…?” Evie wiggles her fingers in an exaggerated “magic” gesture, and to her great surprise Barris gives a throaty chuckle.

“Next time, yeah?” He shakes his head good-naturedly when she gives a mock salute, and then it’s just her and Varric. 

“You’re getting chummy with a different templar than I expected,” the dwarf says, lifting his bushy eyebrows.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, do you have a thing for _ all _men in shiny suits or are you just deflecting?”

She throws back the rest of her drink in two gulps, slamming her empty glass on the table and waving to Flissa. If Varric wants to have this kind of conversation, Evie is going to be drunk for it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” He eyes her next drink. “I think we’re going to need something stronger, Princess.”

Evie gives a strangled gurgle. “You know I hate that nickname.”

“And I hate that you still insist on reading my worst works.” He stares pointedly again at her copy of _ The Dasher’s Men_. “I’m trying to help you, Herald. If you keep making nice with the templar like that, Curly’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

“What?”

Evie follows when he gestures with his mug, towards the entrance to the tavern. Barris has stopped, still supporting his swaying comrade, and is talking to a taller, broader man with a fur cloak—_ Oh for fuck’s sake, Maker save me. _

“Why is Cullen here?” she curses. “Cullen never comes here.”

“Look, Princess, just go over and sit with him.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

Varric gives her an exasperated look, and before she can stop him he’s calling the Commander over.

“_Varric! _” she hisses. “I don’t want—”

“Good evening, Varric.” Cullen is in front of their table, domineering and just slightly awkward. He tries to smile. “Miss Trevelyan.”

Evie does her best not to groan. What is that dwarf _ thinking _—

“Curly, sit down, sit down.” Varric kicks the empty chair beside Evie so that it pushes out from the table. “The Herald and I were just discussing our new allies.” He leans back in his seat. “She’s taken it upon herself to inspect the new Knight-Captain personally.”

“Is that so? I trust you find them satisfactory.” Then Cullen wrinkles his brow. “Wait, new Knight-Captain—you mean Barris? How did you two get acquainted?”

Evie opens her mouth to answer, but Varric beats her to it. “They fought together at Therinfal Redoubt. Princess here saved his life, and it seems he’s quite smitten with her.”

“He is not _ smitten, _Varric, don’t be telling Rutherford lies like that—”

Cullen’s cheeks are pink. “I should, uh, get going—”

“Stay, stay!” Varric grins. “Look, the drinks are here.” Flissa drops the mugs on the table and Evie shoots her a pleading look. “Live a little, Curly.”

“Varric,” Evie hisses. _ You’re making a mess of things, dwarf! _

“I suppose…” Cullen’s eyes flash to hers, and she drops them to her drink in an attempt to stave off her own blush. “It’s already poured, isn’t it?”

“Shouldn’t waste it,” Varric agrees wholeheartedly. Cullen gives a small smile, as if asking Evie for reassurance.

“Might as well stay,” she volunteers.

Evie’s face is warm because of the alcohol, the temperature inside the tavern, and not because the Commander’s knee brushes hers underneath the table.

* * *

She leans heavily into her mug in an attempt to make it through Varric’s shenanigans, and before long she finds herself drunker than she intended. Varric, the sly bastard, blithely suggests to the Commander that he ought to walk her back to her little cabin. Cullen, ever the dashing _ fucking _ gentleman, agrees.

“I’m perfectly fine, you know,” she denies, standing on wobbly legs from her seat. Flissa is clearing off nearby tables, the place almost empty except for them. After Varric had gotten Cullen to agree to walk her back, he’d thrown her a wink and hurried off ahead of them. She felt like cursing at him. “It’s barely any distance from here to my room.”

“Is it so hard to let me be chivalrous to a lady, Miss Trevelyan?” He smiles at her and her knees go wobbly again—damn alcohol. 

“I hate that you call me that,” she mutters, not realizing how close in proximity he is to her until his arm is suddenly supporting her back. She jumps, startled, and he looks hurt for a split second.

“You...hate it?”

“I wish you’d just call me by my name,” she says. “I hated ‘Lady’ and I hate ‘Miss Trevelyan’.”

“I’m just being respectful—”

“Just call me by my name or don’t call me anything at all.” She doesn’t mean to growl it, to sound so cold to him. It’s the booze, her growing frustrations, those fucking wobbly knees— “I don’t need to be reminded of my station every second of every fucking day, I didn’t ask for all these fucking _ titles _—”

“Evelyn.”

And _ damn _if that doesn’t stop her heart for a split second.

He smiles at her again, his ears red. “E-E—Herald, I insist you let me help you back to your room.”

Back to titles, back to responsibilities. It dampens the feeling of his arm around her waist, his warmth at her side, and when he gets her to her door she thanks him, but slams the door shut with a harsh, “Goodnight, _ Commander_.”


	3. Anger: Part One

Evie is  _ furious _ . There was an attack on Haven—dozens are dead, and even with the ones she managed to save, all she can think about is how many mages she had to kill. She barely survived, and she’s livid at the man responsible, the Elder One, Corypheus. She’s equally angry at Cassandra and Mother Giselle. They’ve gone and made her Inquisitor, which is bad enough with all of its sudden responsibilities and the weight of a hundred peoples’ hopes suddenly crushing her, but—

Cullen has barely spoken to her since the attack. He had yelled at her, in the barricaded Chantry—called her plan stupid,  _ reckless _ — and his silence now is infuriating. She’s been distracting herself from this hurtful fact by meditating with Solas. Solas led her and the survivors to Skyhold, their new home, and she’s still so  _ angry _ . She doesn’t mean to seek him out, to search for the comforting presence he’s become to her.

When she finds Cullen a few hours after the arrival to Skyhold—the man is  _ already _ working, setting up guard rotations and organizing repairs on the fortress—her anger has left her and she slips. A few moments in this blasted man’s presence and she  _ slips _ and reveals how worried she’d been during the battle.

“It was close,” she says. “I’m relieved that you—er, that so many of our people made it out.”

Her face is warm with her mistake, but he quirks a small half-smile at her and her chest tightens. His expression grows serious, and he murmurs a short, “As am I,” and she swears she’s going to have a heart attack—but then he says nothing else.  _ Nothing _ . She turns to walk away before the shame and embarrassment can consume her. She’s made an  _ absolute fool of herself. _

“You stayed behind.”

She stops.

“You could have—”

She turns back to him—she’s never felt like this before, like she can’t breathe but could possibly fly—

“I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word.”

And just like that something snaps. He is already looking back to the plans spread out on the crate in front of him, and she is burning with renewed rage. How  _ dare he _ . He had started to say something else, and instead he leans back on his duty. To the Inquisition. To her, only in so much as she is the new  _ Inquisitor _ . 

She grabs a nearby sword and storms off, rotating the hilt in her sweaty palm, intent on taking her anger out on some unsuspecting rock or tree.

“Inquisitor?” Solas questions when she walks past, and she whirls on him with ferocity.

“ _ Don’t call me that _ !” Her voice takes on a strange, multi-tonal level, as if it wasn’t just  _ her  _ speaking. Steel whistles through the air; she hadn’t realized she’d swung the sword. When the realization hits, despite the fact that she missed Solas, missed him by a mile, she drops the blade with shaking hands. “Solas,” she breathes, tears springing to her eyes unbidden. “Solas, I’m so sorry.”

He’s not afraid of her, doesn’t even flinch. He grasps her trembling fingers, looking concerned. “Evelyn, are you alright?”

“I can’t do this, Solas,” she whispers. The anger is still there, at herself for being so weak, at Cullen for being so  _ stupid _ —but more than that now there is fear. She doesn’t know herself right now. “I can’t, I can’t be their Inquisitor—”

Her whole body is quivering. She’s so cold.

“We’ve been over this.” Solas’s voice is gentle but unwavering. “They need hope, they need a symbol—”

“ _ Blast  _ what they need, Solas, I’m not capable of—” Pain shoots up her arm, the anchor crackling with power, and she cries out. Her legs give, and Solas steadies her.

“Like it or not, Evelyn, you have the anchor,” he says. “You sealed the Breach. You gave hope to all these people. It’s a burden, yes, but the fates wouldn’t have given you something you couldn’t handle. This feeling will pass.”

She collapses against his shoulder, hiding her shame, her pain, her tears. “It’s not fair, Solas, it isn’t fair.” She thinks of Cullen, of the circumstances that brought her to him and yet distance him so far from her. She hates that he sprung to her mind so quickly. She hates being Inquisitor.

“No,” Solas agrees. “It isn’t fair.”

He says nothing else until she has quieted, and then she pushes him back, embarrassed. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Evelyn. Your feelings, all of them, are perfectly natural.”

She feels as though he has seen right through her in that moment. Her face flushes crimson. She mutters another apology and flees, eager to be alone.

There’s nowhere to go, however, no possible way to be alone. Everywhere she goes, either a familiar face stops her or someone calls her title. A scout wants to give a report on their survey of the area. Varric wants to know where they’re setting up the tavern. Dorian stops her to ask—

“Who’s the handsome commander, and is he taken?”

“What?” Her head snaps up. She’s been looking down, avoiding eye contact, because all she wants is some thrice-damned peace and quiet— “Are you talking about Cullen?”

“Cullen,” Dorian repeats, grinning. “Nice name. So, go on, give me the details.”

“What makes you think I know anything about his personal life?” she snaps. She’s too raw for this discussion, but she’s wandered onto one of the battlements and unless she backtracks, Dorian has her trapped.

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “I see I’ve struck a nerve. Perhaps I read the room wrong, so to speak.”

“What are you  _ talking  _ about? Do we  _ seem  _ particularly close to you? We’ve barely spoken since you arrived, what makes you think—”

“You’re blushing, Inquisitor,” Dorian teases, and she bristles. “My mistake, then, is it? So I just imagined the way he stares at you when he thinks no one is looking, hm? Which, in case you were noticing, is  _ very frequently _ .” Dorian clicks his tongue. “And the dwarf was the one who insinuated that you two were close.”

“Varric, that little—” Evie tries, she really tries, to reel back her refreshed anger. “Cullen’s just my commanding officer, nothing more, and whatever that little gossipy shit is spreading—”

“I heard he was inconsolable,” Dorian interrupts. “When he thought you were dead, after Haven. Just stared into the fire for hours. When you crawled out of a snowstorm, frostbitten and half-alive, he stayed by your bedside until you regained consciousness. Mother Giselle said all he did was talk to you and pray.”

Evie swallows hard. She’d heard the same, from Cassandra, and though the woman had probably meant well, Evie assumed she’d been exaggerating. To hear it from Dorian, to hear that it is behavior being discussed within the camp, puts a lump in her throat.

“He was just concerned the Inquisition would lose their fearless leader,” she whispers. “I’m just the Inquisitor.”

Dorian looks like he wants to say something else, but hesitates. He sighs before plastering on a smile. “You look like you could use a drink.”


	4. Anger: Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fudged the timelines/dialogue a smidge!

It’s frustrating how quickly they get the tavern area renovated before anything else. Evie assumes Varric had a hand in that. Josephine promises that her official quarters as Inquisitor are next on the renovations list, but Evie is more concerned with the guard tower and the kitchens. The battlements had been first to be repaired, on Cullen’s insistence, along with the war room, armory, and training grounds—as expected from her Commander. The rookery and atrium library have newly-fixed ceilings and floors, and she has found herself hiding from more than one meeting in the library’s comforting walls.

They’ve been at Skyhold for nearly a month now. Dorian and Varric seem to have bonded, spending most of their free time at the tavern, while Solas spends most of his reading in the courtyard and Cullen, of course, spends most of his time in the war room or at the training grounds.

“Is his office nearly repaired?” Evie asks, her eyes having found the Commander from her perch on the battlements. She found she likes being up on the walls. It is easier, being just that little extra bit separated from everyone.

“Whose?” Leliana asks. Josephine looks up from her clipboard; Evie isn’t sure what they’ve just been talking about, but it’s clear she hasn’t been paying attention.

Evie clears her throat. “Commander Rutherford’s. I’ve noticed it’s...hard for him to truly get any work done in the war room. There’s space in that tower he’s been using as quarters. We could furnish it, maybe fix the roof? An office there might be...beneficial for him, don’t you think?”

The two other women share a look. Leliana hides a smile.

“Your quarters are the priority, Inquisitor,” says Josephine, and Evie winces.

“Then change the priority,” she snaps. “I don’t need fancy rooms. We need the steps to the guard tower fixed, _ now_, and furnishing the Commander’s office should be next immediately after.”

“Y-Yes, Inquisitor.”

Her anger spurs action, and before the week is out, Cullen has an office. 

* * *

Evie has never been a fan of nobility; she lets Josephine handle the shmoozing and the ass-kissing. Her title has power, her name doubly so Josephine likes to say. Evie thinks that’s funny given how her family discarded her when they discovered her talent for magic. They probably told their inner circle she was off at some posh boarding school.

So when Josephine comes to her in the war room and says they must journey to Orlais for the Winter Ball, Evie’s response is a resounding: “_No._”

“But, Inquisitor, the fate of Orlais—”

“_No,_” Evie repeats. “Monsters? Sure. Red templars? Sure. Demons? All day long. You cannot possibly expect me to get involved in political affairs. I wouldn’t go to court if my like depended on it—”

“The Inquisition depends on it,” Josephine insists. “We need the support of the Emperor—”

“You mean Celene, the genocidal bitch who murdered thousands of elves?” Evie rubs her neck, drawing the surprised gaze of Cullen and a hidden smile from Leliana. 

“It seems there’s a plot brewing to assassinate her,” said the spymaster.

“Good,” Evie snaps. She presses hard on the bridge of her nose. “Sorry, sorry. Haven’t been sleeping.” She grips the edge of the war table, steadfastly ignoring Cullen’s gaze. “So, am I to assume we’re stopping the assassination in exchange for Celene’s support of the Inquisition?” She notices the smirk on Leliana’s face. “Or, depending on who’s behind the plot, we let it happen and orchestrate her replacement in a way that benefits us the most.”

Josephine looks briefly horrified—Leliana looks impressed. 

“My, my,” she says. “Look at you.”

“Just because I despise the game doesn’t mean I don’t know how to play.” Evie clicks her tongue. “Who’s going?”

“If the Inquisition is to make a formal appearance,” Josephine says, “obviously you, myself, and Commander Rutherford will have to attend.”

“Me?” Cullen asks, incredulous. “Why must I go?”

“Because you’re the commander of our forces, of course,” Josephine says, and Leliana quietly laughs and adds, “And most of Orlesian society considers you quite the eligible bachelor.”

Cullen balks, and thankfully his reaction draws their attention away from Evie’s white knuckles on the edge of the table. She thinks of Cullen getting fawned over by the Orlesian elite and magic crackles in her fingertips with her rising rage. That slip of self control is a mistake—Cullen can sense it, and he looks to her in confusion.

“Fine,” she agrees. She just wants out of the war room, away from those eyes. “I’m bringing Dorian.”

Cullen frowns at her, but she’s already on her way out the door. Josephine can iron out the details.

“And I’m _ not _ wearing a _ dress,_” she adds.

* * *

“Of course you’re wearing a dress, my dear,” Dorian says as they get ready together. “You’re a _ Trevelyan, _you can’t be seen in that awful military formal wear.” He lifts the brush to her hair, running it through and then starting in on a braid.

“That’s what Josephine is wearing,” Evie says defensively. She fidgets in her chair. “I’ve always hated corsets, they’re so uncomfortable.”

“Stop complaining, you look phenomenal.” Dorian coils the braid at the nape of her neck and secures it with clips. “Put some of that rouge on your lips. The commander won’t be able to take his eyes off of you.”

Her face flushes hotly. “What does he have to do with anything? And this isn’t a _ party, _Dorian, it’s a mission.”

“It’s a mission at a party,” he insists. “I’m honored you’re inviting me along.”

“Why does it have to be so bright?” she mumbles, pulling at her dress again. Dorian rolls his eyes and hands her the rouge. “It will be impossible to blend in with this outfit.”

Dorian puts his hands on her shoulders and looks at their reflection in the mirror. “Come now, darling. Don’t want to keep them waiting.”

The dress is in the color scheme of the Inquisition formal wear—a deep scarlet red number with a tight bodice and bustle in the back, along with a royal blue ribbon at her cinched waist. Cullen and Josephine had arrived at the palace ahead of her so that her arrival could be announced independently—more of an impact, Josephine had said, and Evie can certainly feel the eyes on her when she arrives. Her name is called: Inquisitor, Lady Evelyn Trevelyan. She tries hard not to flinch.

“Commander, ten o’ clock,” Dorian says in her ear, leaning close.

Her eyes find Cullen easily even without Dorian’s direction; he’s staring at her, a sort of open wonder on his face, and when their eyes meet his cheeks color and he looks away. Only then does she see the women, surrounding him like vultures, and once again the magic jumps to her fingertips and she has to tamp it down before Cullen can sense it again.

“I need a drink,” she grumbles, and Dorian gives a sympathetic smile as he leads her away.

* * *

Evie _ hates _politics. Dorian and Josephine are arguing in hushed tones about the options. Keep Celene in power? Reconcile her and Briala? Put Gaspard in power with Briala running behind the scenes? Blackmail all three of them into a public truce?

Evie hates every option—none of them are real, long-term solutions for Orlais. She takes another sip of her champagne. It’s her third glass, but she can’t seem to calm down.

“You alright, Evie?” asks Dorian suddenly, his brows drawn together in concern.

“I made myself look like an idiot,” she mutters into her glass. “He was being circled by those Orlesian wolves practically the whole night.”

“I know, dear.” Dorian winces. “Trust me, this isn’t how I thought the night would go either. Poor man is more obtuse than I could have ever dreamed.”

She downs the remaining contents of her glass. “I asked him to save me a dance.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Well now, that’s my girl!”

“He turned me down flat, Dorian.”

“Wait, what? In that dress? Is he _ blind? _”

“He tried to play it off, said he’d been so on edge that he was rejecting them automatically.”

“That’s entirely possible, darling, you know how he is—”

“Doesn’t matter. He still said no, and I should be focusing on the stupid assassination anyway.”

* * *

Morrigan leaves her on the balcony, and Evie counts slowly to four. She can hear muffled music from the ballroom.

_ Almost over, _she thinks. The mission is through, and in just under half an hour, the night will be over, and then she can go home and take off this blasted dress—

She hears the footsteps behind her and her whole body tenses.

“There you are,” Cullen says, and he sounds relieved, warm. “Everyone is looking for you.”

“Finally able to get away from your throng of admirers?”

Cullen flinches, joining her at the railing of the balcony. “I could hardly get away all night.”

“I noticed.” She slides her eyes over him and away. He does somehow manage to make the gaudy military suit look...sort of fetching. The red plays well with his fair hair, the fit suits his broad shoulders. All at once she feels a sobering combination of anger and hopelessness. “Not enjoying the attention, then?”

“Hardly,” he scoffs. He’s leaning against the railing, his forearms straining, and the music from the hall crescendos at that exact moment so that she almost misses when he clears his throat and says, “Anyway, yours is the only attention worth having.”

Her heart thuds so loudly against her ribcage she swears he can hear it. _ Don’t say that, _ she thinks. _ Don’t say that if you don’t mean it. _

Her fingers clench and unclench against the railing. She wants to scream.

“Are you alright?” he says at normal volume.

“I’m great,” she says. “Things went according to plan for once. Couldn’t be happier.”

“I’m glad it’s over,” he agrees, and she can hear the relief in his voice. “I know it’s...foolish, but I was worried for you tonight.”

He reaches for her arm and she stares at the motion, entranced. His fingers barely brush her shoulder and her breath catches in her throat. How dare he show up at the end of the night, try to wrap her around his little finger—how dare it _ work _—

She waits for him to retract his touch; he’s done it so often before, reached for her and then thought better of it, retreating like her body is a hot stove. He locks eyes with her, the second time that night, and then his palm is firmly, warmly against her shoulder. At first contact, it’s not unlike the kind of comforting shoulder pat she’s received from anyone—Dorian and Cassandra are partial to this kind of motion especially—but then it changes.

His hand slides from the top of her shoulder down to her upper arm and _ squeezes _ever so fractionally, and he’s gotten closer to her—she can feel the heat coming from his body, and the music swells again—

And he steps back.

At first, she’s furious, the anger bubbling quick and hot like bile across her tongue, but then he gives her that soft smirk she adores, and he says, “I may never get another chance like this.”

She doesn’t understand what he’s saying at all, until he offers her his hand. He dips his torso in a shallow bow, and adds, “May I have this dance, my lady?”

She lifts her hand to his almost automatically—she’s shaking. “I thought you said Templars don't dance.”

She hasn’t said yes, but what else could her hand mean? He pulls her toward him, his other hand settling at the small of her back. He keeps a proper distance between them as he gently spins them, and she wonders what he’s thinking. What does this mean for him? Is he as much of a wreck as she is right now?

“For you, I’ll try,” he says, chuckling, and she’s lost.

She tries to drink in the moment, to enjoy, but there’s a part of her that’s still desperate to know—is he dancing with her because she’s his Inquisitor? Or is he dancing with her because she’s Evie?

She doesn’t have the courage to ask.


End file.
